Sinner Man
by Welcome to my House of Mirrors
Summary: He hadn't even known their names. That doesn't change the fact that they were the ones to break him. Hurt, depressed Sam and a very worried Dean. Spoilers for "The End".
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not nor will I ever own Supernatural or the characters presented by the show. This writing is mean stricly for entertainment purposes.

So this story will be in three parts. I have the second part written, and if people like this part I'll post the next one. Enjoy! =)

* * *

_Oh Sinner Man, where you gonna run to? _~Sinner Man (Unknown Arranger)

* * *

Sam doesn't even know their names. Doesn't know what they look like either, because it's so dark all the time, as if someone had decided to put out the sun.

_It's probably just a blindfold, dumbass, _Dean's voice says. From where, Sam can't tell. Maybe some place inside the room. More likely some place inside his head.

Sam doesn't know their names, or what they look like, or what day it is, or what state he's in. He doesn't know when the last time he ate was or if the slow, steady _drip, drip, drip _echoing through the room is water or his blood. Doesn't know where Dean is, what he's doing. All he knows is that he's the one who started the Apocalypse, and that he deserves this.

It's cold. He's not sure where his clothes are. He still has his boxers on, but they're soaking wet from what Sam hopes is blood and not piss. Because he should at least be allowed to hold on to the dignity of being able to control his own bladder, no matter what he's done. Besides, he hasn't had anything to drink recently. At least, not that he can remember.

The chains around his wrists clink softly as he shifts around. He's suspended so that the tips of his toes barely brush the ground, and his arms and hands have long since gone numb. His lungs ache with the effort of trying to breathe through broken ribs. Freshly broken, at that; Sam can still remember so vividly the feel of the knife as it was wedged between the bones at his back and jerked abruptly, the handle pushed down so that the ribs snapped just near his spinal cord.

_What's a few broken bones, Sammy? _Dean says, and this time Sam is fairly certain that the voice is in his head.

_You would know, _Sam thinks. He imagines Dean winking.

Sam parts his lips and lets out a long, shuddering breath as a door creaks somewhere above him and footstep echo down the stairs and across the room before stopping. Something rattles, metal clinks against metal and Sam can't help but tense with fear because this is how it started last time, and every time before that; with the rattling and the clinking and _Please, god, no more..._

"You know you deserve this, Sam," comes the voice of one of the unnamed men. It's soft, almost gentle, and Sam thinks _I know, I know, I know._

It doesn't stop him from gasping out in pain as the tender arches of his feet are cut into. He tries to map out the lacerations in his mind, but it's just as dark in his head as it is outside of it, and Sam can't visualise much of anything anymore. But he can still see Dean, can still see his expression twisted with betrayal and hatred, can still hear Dean as he calls him a vampire and a monster and says that he's done trying to save him.

_You're not you anymore, and there's no going back._

_We're not stronger when we're together, Sam._

_I'm sorry,_ Sam thinks. _So sorry._

"I bet," the unnamed voice sneers. Oh. Did he say that out loud?

The pain in his feet stops abruptly, replaced by a dull throb as the unnamed voice gets up and moves away. There're

more noises, a scraping that Sam can't identify and a sound that might be the unscrewing of a soda bottle cap

before the strong scent of bleach fills the air. His head is tipped to the side suddenly and then the unnamed voice is pouring something in his ear, something that burns and sizzles and makes him feel like the left half of his head is being liquefied slowly.

A scream tears itself from his throat before he can stop it. He jerks against the hand holding his head down, wrenches his hands in the chains and in the background someone is laughing, laughing...

* * *

When Sam wakes up—or starts thinking again or whatever the hell, because he can't remember going to sleep—everything is quiet. There's no dripping sound anymore, and there's no voices or creaking above him. His breath immediately quickens as his mind screams _wrong wrong wrong _so he listens harder, and only then does he realise that the sounds aren't gone, only muted. He can hear nothing out of his left ear.

_Irreparable, _a voice that sounds suspiciously like his dad's says. _Careless_.

Something comes out of Sam's mouth then, part-moan part-cry part-snarl. The sound shocks him. _How far from human?_ Dean's voice accuses and suddenly Sam is sobbing tearless, broken sobs.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he cries, croaks really, because his voice is wrecked. His chest hurts where they burned him that first time.

He scrapes his toes uselessly across the concrete floor as his words dissolve into a litany of his brother's name, said over and over again like a mantra. Something slimy drips from Sam's chin to his collarbone. He feels something damp across his eyes.

He weeps bitterly, because everything the unnamed voices had said is true. He's a monster. A traitor. Worthless. He started the Apocalypse, drank demon blood, let Lucifer out of the cage. He deserves this. He _deserves _this. Because it's all his fault.

He's still sobbing when heavy steps come into the room.

"Shut up!" the unnamed voice growls. It's not the one from before. The sharp sound of skin against skin echoes out, seemingly muted because Sam can only hear with one ear. Still, he hears it before he feels it.

"Pathetic piece of shit," the voice mutters. "I thought you Winchesters were supposed to be tough."

_Me too, _Sam thinks. He keeps his mouth shut.

He still doesn't say anything when one of his hands is removed from the chains, or when it stings at a thousand points because his circulation is returning. He doesn't make a sound when all of his fingers are broken starting with his thumb. Stays silent as his other hand is given the same treatment.

"Well, boy, your ribs seem to be healing nicely," the unnamed voice says roughly. "But I'll let them heal up a bit more before I break 'em again. How's that sound?"

He doesn't say anything.

* * *

Somewhere along the line Sam develops a nasty cough that makes his lungs burn and rattles his re-broken ribs. His mouth and throat feel like they're filled with sand. For a while he's really hot, and he can hear lots of voices. Dean's, John's, Bobby's, Jess's. Even Mary's. It doesn't matter, though, because they all hate him. All of them.

"I can make it stop, Sam," Lucifer says at one point. "All you have to do is say yes."

Sam tells him to go to hell.

Then he's freezing cold and it's different; he can hear shouting upstairs and running and what sounds like gunshots and then Dean's voice is there, speaking in an anguished, terrified tone that Sam thought he'd never hear again.

_Sammy. Oh god, Sammy_—_what did they do to you? What did _I _do to you? Sammy? Can you_—

"—hear me? Sam? Oh god, please be okay..." There are shaking fingers at his neck, feeling his pulse point, and then they're higher, behind his head, untying the blindfold.

Sam recoils at the light, so bright after his eternity in darkness that it hurts. The hands from before are back immediately, cupping around his eyes and shielding some of the brightness.

And then Sam sees Dean. His eyes are wide and just as terrified as his voice had been, and they're darting around Sam's body with growing horror. He's somehow gotten the chains off of his wrists without Sam's notice, and now he's lowering Sam gently to the dirty ground, kneeling in front of him. He gently wipes Sam's mouth and chin with his sleeve. "God, Sammy," he says. His voice breaks.

"Dean," Sam says. His eyes fill up with tears. "Dean," he repeats.

"I'm here, kiddo, I'm here," Dean replies, bringing his eyes back up to meet Sam's.

Sam reaches out with a shaking hand and grips the front of Dean's shirt. His lips tremble as the tears spill down his cheeks. "I want to be good, Dean," he whimpers. His voice cracks. "I want to be a good person. Please. I just want to be a good person."

Dean's own eyes well up at Sam's words, and he cups Sam's face in his hands, brushing away his little brother's tears. "I know, Sammy," he whispers. "God—I know."

Castiel comes down then with Sam's clothes, but after one look at the younger man he discards them with a shake of his head.

"His injuries are too severe," he says grimly. "They would only cause him pain."

Cas zaps them back because it's faster and easier than trying to explain to people why they have a broken man in just his boxers that are still damp with what Sam is now certain is blood. The angel then convinces Dean to let him go back for the Impala with an, "I am capable of driving a car, Dean," and, when that doesn't work, a, "Your brother needs you now."

"Come on, kiddo," Dean says when Cas is gone, gently propelling Sam towards the bathroom. "Let's get you cleaned up, huh?"

Sam complies without a word, letting Dean sit him down on the edge of the bathtub and give him a glass of water before examining the bottoms of his feet. Dean's expression darkens.

"Goddamned sons of bitches," he mutters, and then takes a deep breath before looking up at his little brother. "I'm gonna have to disinfect them, Sammy. I'm sorry. It's gonna hurt like hell." His eyes shine with remorse.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam counters quietly, voice clear now because the water did wonders for his throat. _I trust you_.

Dean swallows hard and gets the first aid kit from off of the sink. Sam doesn't say a word as Dean cleans the cuts and stitches what needs to be stitched, but he can't stop the sudden tears that trickle down his face.

"Hey, hey, don't cry," Dean coaxes when he looks up and sees Sam's distress. "I'm sorry, Sammy, I know it hurts. I'm almost done, okay?"

Sam shakes his head and opens his mouth to tell him what's wrong, but all that comes out is a strangled sob.

Dean stops what he's doing and leans up to pull Sam against him, carding his fingers through his brother's greasy hair. "Shh, shh, Sammy," he soothes, rocking them gently side to side. "It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay."

"I want to be good," Sam sobs. He clenches both hands in the back of Dean's shirt. "I want to be good."

"I know, kiddo," Dean says, and his voice is thick. "I know. I know. You're a good person, Sammy. You are. I know you've made some pretty big mistakes, and I know that I've been a dick lately, and for that I'm so sorry." He pulls back, looks Sam in the eyes. "But I know that your heart's in the right place, Sam." He puts his hand on Sam's chest as though to emphasise his point. "You're a good person, Sammy. I know you are."

Sam nods like he believes it, sniffles and brings a hand up to swipe at his eyes. He lets Dean help him out of his boxers and sits in the bathtub with his back curved over his knees as his big brother turns on the shower so that it's just this side of hot. Only then does Sam realise how cold he is. He shivers violently and begs Dean to turn the heat up, but Dean doesn't want to aggravate his injuries more, doesn't want to make the burns on his back any worse. Sam understands, and bites his lip to keep his teeth from chattering.

Dean gently washes the blood and grime out of his hair, lathering the shampoo in while teasing Sam half-heartedly about his ridiculous locks. Sam bickers back just as half-heartedly and tries to pretend that maybe he deserves this. Maybe he's the good person Dean says he is.

But it's not true and he knows it. He's not a good person. Good people don't drink demon blood or betray their brothers or start apocalypses.

The thought brings tears to his eyes.

* * *

_He doesn't believe you, _some part of Dean's brain accuses. _He doesn't believe a word you said._

Dean bites his lip and focuses on wiping at least five days' worth of dried blood from his brother's skin, even as he thinks, _I know_.

And it's his fault. It's his fault that Sam thinks this way of himself. Sure, those assholes Jerry and Mike might have helped the process along, but with the way Dean's been acting lately it was bound to happen sooner or later. So initially he's the one who broke his brother, and the thought makes something in his chest ache unpleasantly.

He'd been so angry, though! And hurt, and betrayed, and just _tired _of it all. He'd ignored Sam's attempts at penance because he thought Sam should have to live with what he'd done just a little bit more, a little bit longer. But this... he _never _wanted this. _Ever. _

He doesn't know how many times he'd called that first day after his adventure with the Ghost of Christmas Screw-You. Probably more than fifty. After two days of nothing but voicemail, he'd contacted Bobby and gotten Sam's general location, and then he'd found out that Sam had just seemingly up and left the motel he was staying at without taking anything with him. That was when he had known that something was very, very wrong. It took him five days to find his little brother.

_Five days too late, _Dean thinks. Walking into that basement to see a very broken, bloody Sam had been one of the worst moments of his life.

"Is he alright?" Cas asks from behind him, and Dean swears and tries not to fall over. Sam's cheek is resting on his knees so that his face is turned away from them. He doesn't move.

"Dammit, Cas," Dean grumbles, then takes a steadying breath. "It's not quite as bad with all the blood gone, but he's still in pretty rough shape..."

Cas nods and looks at Sam sadly. "I wish that this had not happened to him."

Dean exhales slowly. "You and me both, Cas."

"Is there anything you require?"

"Um, some food would be good," Dean says. "Something light on the stomach, though, okay? I don't think they fed him the whole time he was there."

"Of course." With that he's gone.

Dean's brow furrows as he realises that Sam still hasn't said a word. Usually the kid hates being talked about as if he isn't there. "You okay, Sammy?"

"I don't feel great," he admits. His voice trembles.

"I bet you don't, kiddo," Dean murmurs, bringing his hand up to run his fingers through Sam's hair. "I just have to patch you up and then I'll get you some of the good stuff, okay?"

Sam nods.

_He's not a kid anymore, _a part of Dean's brain says.

_I know_, Dean thinks, but hell if Sam doesn't look like one right now, thin and curled around himself and seeming impossibly small. Tears sting Dean's eyes while he turns the water off and gently pats his brother dry before helping him into a clean pair of underwear.

As he sets Sam's broken ribs and fingers and stitches the cuts that will scar no matter what he does and cleans and bandages the burns, Dean wishes desperately that he could take it all back. The anger, the resentment. The fact that he's been a sucky brother for the past however long and Sam's paid the ultimate price for it. He's never wanted anything so much in his life.

When he gets to Sam's left ear, fury races through his veins and veils his vision with red. He wipes away the blood that he'd missed and examines the raw, pink flesh that smells distinctly of bleach.

Gently, he turns his brother's head and puts his hand over the other ear.

"Can you hear me, Sammy?" he asks. Sam just blinks at him.

"Fucking hell," he growls standing up and running a shaky hand through his hair.

"Is there a problem?" Cas asks from the doorway, and this time Dean is too angry to be startled.

"Can you fix this?" he asks, walking over to Sam and gently displaying his ruined ear to the angel. Cas frowns.

"I can heal most of the physical damage, but I will not be able to restore his hearing."

Dean sighs and runs his hand through his hair again. "That's okay," he says tiredly. "Just do what you can."

Cas nods and walks over to the younger Winchester, who's looking down with something akin to shame. It makes Dean's blood boil.

The older Winchester blinks as Cas touches Sam's temple and suddenly _all _of his injuries are gone, leaving smooth, unblemished skin where there would have been unavoidable scarring. When the angel said he could 'heal most of the physical damage', he meant it.

"I was unable to relieve him of his fever," Cas tells Dean. "I am sorry."

"No, no, that's—"Dean clears his throat. "That's great, Cas. You did great."

Cas nods. "Do you feel better now, Sam?" he asks.

Sam nods. "Thanks, Cas."

"You are welcome," Cas says. "I am glad that you feel better." The Angel looks at Dean. "I must go now, but I will be back later. The food is on the nightstand."

Dean nods. "Okay, Cas. Thanks." He turns to Sam when the angel has gone again. "Alright, Sasquatch, let's get you drugged up, huh?" he offers. "Sounds like good times."

Sam smiles weakly and accepts Dean's outstretched hand, allowing his brother to pull him up and keep him steady with an arm around his waist.

Dean leads Sam over to the bed and sits him down, gives him two white pills from a prescription bottle. Sam takes the medicine and curls himself under the blankets, and when Dean starts to walk away he says, "Please don't go," so brokenly that Dean has to clench his teeth against the tears that threaten to escape.

"Aw, Sammy," he murmurs, sliding into the space beside his brother. He can't stop the drops that trickle down his face as Sam's words from earlier echo in his mind.

_I want to be good, Dean. I want to be a good person._

_Please._

_I just want to be a good person._

He pulls Sam against him and stokes Sam's hair. "I'm right here," he promises. _I'm not going anywhere._

* * *

**So tell me what you think! Should I continue?**


	2. Chapter 2

_Dream Brother, with your tears scattered 'round the world. _~Dream Brother by Jeff Buckley

* * *

When Dean wakes up he finds that somehow his 6'4" brother has managed to curl himself completely into his side, tucking his hands up between their chests and resting his head in the crook where his neck meets his shoulder. It reminds him of a time when they were younger, when Sam still loved to be held and Dean still loved to hold him. He sighs.

Upon feeling Sam's forehead, Dean is pleased to find that his little brother's fever has gone down considerably, so he decides that it's time to get the kid to eat something.

"Sammy," he says, shaking the younger man gently. "Sammy. Come on, Sleeping Beauty, time to wake up."

Sam's eyelids flutter and soon he's blinking sleepily up at Dean, looking confused and like he's all of five years old. Dean chuckles.

And then Sam's eyes fill with tears.

"Hey! Whoa, whoa, whoa, what's the matter?" Dean backtracks, trying to think of anything he could have possibly said to upset his brother in the past five minutes. Something like panic settles in his gut as he comes up blank. "What hurts, Sammy? Tell me what's wrong so I can fix it."

"No, it's nothing, I'm just—" Sam swipes at his eyes and laughs quietly. "Just having a bit of a hard time controlling my tear ducts. Sorry."

Dean's expression softens and he frowns. "It's fine, Sammy," he assures. "You've just been tortured for a week. I can understand a little extra waterworks."

Sam smiles at him gratefully and moves to sit at the edge of the bed before standing up and heading for the bathroom. His hands shake as he reaches for the doorknob. Dean doesn't understand Sam's sudden hesitation, but then the door is opening with a _creak _and Sam's flinching just a little bit, and then Dean gets it. The door to the basement of that warehouse was creaky.

He grits his teeth against the rage that rushes through his body, regretting not for the first time killing those sons of bitches so quickly.

After both of them are done in the bathroom, Dean gets Sam a bowl of the chicken-noodle soup that Cas brought and some cereal for himself and then they sit down to eat. Except that when Dean looks up at his brother, he realises that he's the only one actually doing the eating.

"You gotta eat, Sam," he says, because the younger man is just holding his spoon in one hand and staring blankly at the soup in front of him. "It's not that hard. Just dip the spoon into the bowl, then raise it to your mouth..."

_Goddammit, _Dean thinks as Sam's expression twists in remorse and his eyes become wet. He puts his own spoon down. "Sam, what's wrong?" he asks desperately, because this is the second time in an hour.

"Nothing, just—fuck—" Sam scrubs angrily at his eyes. "It's just—everything they said, it was all true and now—I can't—I just—_fuck_—"

"Okay, Sammy, let's back up for a minute," Dean interrupts. He leans across the table toward his brother. "Look, I don't know what kind of bullshit they were spewing," he says lowly, "about the Apocalypse or the demon blood or whatever, but I do know that none of it—_none of it_—was true. You are a good person, Sam. You have to believe me. I know I've said—some pretty harsh stuff, but... Man, I didn't mean it. Maybe some of it, but I was just pissed, okay? We're stronger together. I know that. And you're still my brother. I still—" _love you, _"—need you, just like you need me."

Sam nods and looks down at his soup before smirking up at Dean. He makes a show of very slowly dipping his spoon in and then raising it to his mouth, and when he gets there he asks, "What do I do now?"

Dean rolls his eyes, leans back. "Shove it up your nose, bitch."

Sam swallows the spoonful, still smirking. "Jerk."

And Dean thinks that maybe, at least for now, they'll be okay.

* * *

Sam eats slowly because his appetite is iffy at best, so Dean clears his place and then sits at the table studying his little brother carefully, and when Sam is done—though not quite as done as Dean would like, with two-thirds of the soup still in the bowl—he clears Sam's place too before taking the younger man's temperature.

"Your fever's up again," Dean says, frowning. Sam responds with a light hum, not looking at his brother. "You hurt anywhere? Need some heavy-duty stuff?" Deans asks. Sam shakes his head. Dean takes a bottle of Tylenol from the kit and shakes out two pills, handing them to his brother along with a glass of water.

"You wanna go out for a drive, kiddo?" Dean inquires softly, because Sam used to like to do that when he was younger and sick.

Sam opens his mouth like he's going to agree, then closes it and swallows before shaking his head. "I'm a little tired," he says. "You should go out though. Have fun."

"Sam..."

But Sam is already shuffling back towards the bed and burying himself under the blankets, on his side facing away from Dean.

Dean sighs quietly and gathers his keys and wallet, murmuring, "Sleep well, Sammy," before slipping outside and shutting the door softly behind him. As much as he hates to do it, he understands that sometimes his brother needs to be alone.

* * *

As soon as the door closes, Sam comes undone. He muffles the harsh sobs into the pillow, letting the tears flow freely now that Dean isn't here to watch him break. He hates it, this weakness, but he can't stop once he starts and the tears just keep _coming_.

_Worthless, _a voice hisses in his head. _Evil_.

Sam shudders violently, suddenly feeling cold right down to his bones. Harsh coughing begins to accompany the sobs that shake his entire frame, and despair creeps across his mind like a shadow until everything is covered.

Dean comes back sooner than expected, before Sam can get a hold of himself, and is alarmed by the intensity of Sam's anguish as he pulls Sam flush against his chest and rocks them gently, whispering reassuringly and stroking Sam's hair. Even Sam is kind of surprised.

It's like everything he's ever done, all the sadness he's ever felt, is trying to drown him at this very moment and he can't stop it. Not even Dean is able to pull his head above water because there's just so _much _of it. He'll never be happy again. He doesn't _deserve _to be happy because this, all of it, is his fault.

"Shh, Sammy, don't cry," Dean begs, carding his fingers through the younger man's hair. "It's okay. It's okay. Don't cry."

Sam clings to him even though he doesn't deserve it, asks if they can leave soon. Dean promises that they'll leave first thing in the morning.

Sam is grateful to get out of there, but he knows that no matter where he runs, he can never get away from himself.

* * *

As promised, they pack up and go the next morning, and Sam doesn't say much on the car ride. It'll take a few days to get to Bobby's place, but Dean is starting to get really fucking worried. Coming back to the motel yesterday was... well, it was... Dean swallows hard against the memory.

He glances over at his silent brother, takes in the slight flush of his cheeks and the tiredness of his eyes, and frowns. The kid hadn't eaten much the whole day, or yesterday for that matter, because he didn't really get out of bed after the morning.

"You hungry, Sam?" Dean asks. Sam shakes his head. "You need some meds? Got a headache?" Sam shakes his head. "You wanna talk about it?" Sam shakes his head. "Want me to put on some of that girly crap you like to listen to?" Sam shakes his head. Dean blows out a frustrated breath. "C'mon, Sam, work with me here."

"Sorry," Sam apologises quietly, and Dean sighs because that isn't what he had been going for.

"There's nothing to apologise for, Sammy," Dean murmurs. He throws his brother a sideways glance. "You sure you're not hungry?"

Sam shakes his head.

Dean sighs again.

Sam jumps when Dean's phone rings, and Dean grits his teeth as he pulls it out of his pocket. It's Bobby.

"Hey, Bobby."

"You find Sam yet?" Bobby asks, not bothering with the formalities.

Dean glances toward his brother and then up at the rear view mirror as he pulls into another lane. "Yeah, I got 'im. Found him two days ago in some warehouse in Nebraska."

"Boy, didn't I tell you to call me _as soon as you found him_?"

"Sorry, Bobby," Dean apologises, "I forgot. I kinda had my hands full."

There's a pause.

"He okay?"

"Uhm..." Dean bites his lip. "We're on our way to your place, okay? Should be there in about two days." He doesn't like the idea of discussing Sam's condition with Sam right there next to him, even though if he talks quietly enough Sam won't be able to hear him anymore anyway.

Bobby understands immediately. "Alright, and you'd better tell me everything or so help me I will kick your ass nine ways to Sunday."

Dean smirks. "You know I will, Bobby."

"Yeah, yeah," the older man grumbles before hanging up.

Dean slides his phone into his pocket and turns up the music, almost hoping that Sam will yell at him to turn it down. He doesn't, but Dean turns it back down anyway because he knows his brother.

It gets dark fast so they stop for the night and Dean leaves Sam alone for a while, even pretends he doesn't hear the younger man trying to muffle the tears in his pillow, but when the nightmares get bad and Sam starts screaming, he slides into the bed next to his brother and runs his finger through his hair, and soon enough Sam's breathing deep and even and he's able to fall asleep himself.

When Dean wakes up the next morning Sam is gone. Panic sits him bolt upright, but a quick observation of the room reveals the bathroom occupied and breakfast on the TV stand. Dean smiles and stretches. But then he notices that all Sam got for himself is a cup of coffee.

The car ride to Bobby's is just as quiet as it was yesterday, and Sam is eating just as little. Dean is getting really concerned about just what it was that broke inside of his baby brother. Sam is obviously not okay, no matter what he tries to convince Dean otherwise.

It's past eleven by the time they get to Bobby's and Sam's due for some more meds and a nap. So Dean gives him two Tylenol and settles him on the couch because he wants to be able to keep an eye on him, and then he runs his fingers through his little brother's hair until he falls asleep.

"So you two gettin' better?" Bobby asks, nodding to Dean's hand on Sam's head.

"Yeah," Dean sighs. "I just wish it were under better circumstances."

Bobby glares at him. "Alright, yah idjit, now would be the time to start explainin'."

Dean tells him about how when he went to Oklahoma some girl named at a bar had told him about how "Keith" was attacks by two guys who tried to shove something that looked like blood down his throat and that she hadn't seen him since then. Then when he went to Sam's hotel room the lock was broken and Sam had been nowhere to be found, even though all his stuff was still there. Dean had packed up Sam's belongings and headed out in search of his brother, and it took him and Cas five days to find the younger Winchester.

He tells Bobby about Mike and Jerry and how he had shot them immediately after hearing them laughing about what they'd done to Sam, and he tells him about the horrific moment of finding his brother chained up in the basement, burning with fever and barely lucid enough to talk. He explains how Cas heals most of his injuries, leaving behind only the fever and the loss of hearing in his left ear.

"But there's something wrong with him, Bobby," Dean admits, biting his lip. "I don't know what they said to him in there, but... When I found him, the first thing he said to me was, "I want to be good, Dean. I want to be a good person." And now he's crying all the time and not eating and not talking..." Dean looks down at his sleeping younger brother worriedly.

"Aw, Sam," Bobby says softly, laying a gentle hand on the younger man's forehead. He exhales slowly, then looks up at Dean. "Just give him some time, Dean," he offers. "He'll come around eventually. So long as you remind how much you really care for him."

Dean lets out a short breath. "Yeah. 'Cause I've been doing so much of that lately."

"You were angry," Bobby says. "Yeah, you made some pretty stupid ass decisions, and I wouldn't have done the same by a long shot, but I can kinda understand where you were comin' from."

Dean sighs and leans back in the chair he's sitting in, closes his eyes. He thinks that maybe someday, they'll be okay again.

* * *

Dean thought they'd be okay. Oh, how very, very wrong he was.

Over the past few weeks, Sam has gotten steadily worse, fading until he's barely a shell of the little brother Dean used to know. He hardly talks at all, and the closest they've come to a conversation in days are Dean's constant intercessions of, "Sammy, please get up," and "Please eat, Sammy, _please_," and "God, Sammy, _talk to me_."

He's gotten Sam antidepressants that he was surprised Sam actually swallowed, and even though they took the despair from his eyes and made the tears stop, it was like the lights were on but no one was home, and in a way, that was worse. Dean doesn't know what the hell to do, but he's starting to really get scared that if he doesn't do something soon, he's going to lose his brother forever.

"What do we do, Bobby?" Dean asks despairingly one morning when Sam's gone out for one of the walks he's become so fond of lately. "We can't just let him waste away in his own head."

"You think I don't know that?" the older man snaps. He takes a deep breath and braces himself against the kitchen table that Dean's currently sitting at. "I'm worried too, Dean. Hell, I'm startin' to get downright scared. This ain't like your brother. Somethin' in that kid is broken."

"I know, Bobby, _I know_," Dean moans into his hands. "But I don't know how to fix it. I'm worried that he's gonna—do something stupid." _Hurt himself. Decide that there's nothing left here to live for. _Dean can't bring himself to say it.

Bobby swallows roughly. "I know, kid, I know," he says.

"How could I have let this happen?" Dean whispers. "I pushed him away, and some fucked up pricks broke him like a toothpick."

Bobby opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by a voice behind him. "Dean."

Both hunters jump. Bobby swears.

"Jesus, Cas," Dean says. "Don't _do _that!"

"I am sorry," the angel apologises, and then looks around the room. "Where is Sam?"

"He's taking a walk," Dean sighs, and runs a hand through his hair.

Cas looks at him sceptically. "You do not sound happy. I thought he was doing better."

"Me too," Dean mutters under his breath.

"Sam is a little... depressed right now," Bobby explains. "Those assholes did a real number on that boy's self-worth."

"I see," Cas says, frowning thoughtfully. "And it is not going away?"

Dean shakes his head where it rests in his arms on the table.

"Hmm." The angel ponders for a moment. "Maybe it would help for him to do something familiar. Like hunting."

Dean brings his head up at the suggestion. "Uh-uh. No way in hell am I letting Sam hunt in this condition," he says.

But Bobby is looking thoughtful as well. "He kinda has a point, Dean," he agrees slowly, rubbing a hand over his chin. "Maybe rememberin' what huntin' with you is like would do him some good."

Dean stares incredulously between the two. "You can't be serious."

"Why not, Dean?" Cas asks.

Anger surges through Dean suddenly and he stands up. "Oh I can think of a few reasons," he snaps. "The main one being the fact that he'll get himself fucking killed. On purpose. Because that's just the way he's been fucking acting lately, like some suicidal emo freak."

"You'd best shut your goddamn mouth before I shut it for you," Bobby growls. "You ain't got half a mind to what that boy's been through."

The anger depletes just as quickly as it had come and Dean sinks back into his chair. "I know, Bobby. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I'm just—so fucking scared that I'm gonna lose him..." Dean's voice breaks and he looks away.

"I know you are, Dean," Bobby replies gently. "But anger ain't gonna get you anywhere. I think you should try a hunt, just to see what it does for him. If it goes well, then you'll know. If it doesn't... well, then you'll know."

Dean lets out a breath and nods slowly. "Okay," he agrees. "But something easy. A poltergeist maybe. And if something goes wrong, we're not doing this again."

"I think you are making a good decision, Dean," Cas says. He looks at the older Winchester. "Would you like me to go find Sam?"

"Yeah, Cas," Dean says. "That'd be great. Thanks."

The angel nods and then is gone, and when he comes back it's five minutes later through the front door with a Sasquatch in tow.

"You wanted to see me, Dean?" Sam asks quietly. Dean nods.

"We're going hunting, Sammy."

* * *

**So right now I'm really torn. Should this have a happy ending or a not-so-happy ending? Feedback is greatly appreciated. =)**


	3. Chapter 3

**So finally, this is the end! Since no one had an opinion, I decided to go with the sad ending.**

* * *

_Let me be empty, oh and weightless and maybe I'll find some peace tonight. _~Angel by Sarah McLachlan

* * *

Sam sits at the kitchen table, researching on his laptop and trying to tune everything else out. It's easy enough to do with Cas and Dean and Bobby, what with the hearing loss, but no matter what he does he can't get the voices in his head to shut up.

_You're gonna end up gettin' your brother killed in this condition, _John's voice spits. _And it'll be just one more death on your shoulders, more blood on your hands. _

Sam wipes a hand over his eyes as tears blur his vision and tries to refocus on the task at hand, even though he knows that his dad is right.

_Something easy,_ Dean had said. _Just to get started. A poltergeist. Simple, okay? _

It was kind of a hard thing to research online, but eventually he gets something.

"Dean," he calls softly, getting the attention of his older brother immediately.

"Find somethin', Sammy?" Dean asks, getting up from his place on the couch and striding over to where Sam sits at the table.

Sam nods and turns the laptop so that Dean can read the article.

Pretty typical poltergeist activity. A couple is strangled to death in a seemingly abandoned house, and then when some random teenagers decide to go exploring—because they're idiots—they bleed out through their noses. Dean hums his approval.

"Minnesota, huh?" he says. "It's gonna be pretty cold up there."

_Maybe you'll freeze to death, _the Dean in his head offers. Sam nods, not really knowing which statement he's agreeing with. Probably both.

"You up for leaving tomorrow morning?" the real Dean asks.

"Yeah," Sam responds, and gets up and walks away before his brother can do that whole concerned _Are you sure?_ thing that Sam doesn't really deserve.

It's blissfully quiet in the library, and Sam thinks that at least one good thing came of this whole ordeal. Except with limited hearing of the outside world, the stuff inside his head suddenly becomes a whole lot louder.

_Maybe now you'll stop fucking up, _Dean's voice points out. _Big Brother knows best, Sammy._

Sam nods because he knows that. Oh, does he know that. Dean had always known best. Sam had just never listened to him.

He lies on the floor and stares up at the ceiling, wondering vaguely if he's hungry. He can't really tell these days, but it seems that whenever Dean tries to get him to eat the mere thought of food makes him want to vomit.

Dean.

Dean's worried. Sam knows he is, can see it in his face every time he looks at him. Bobby's worried too, and even Cas has begun looking at him with something akin to concern.

He doesn't want to worry them, doesn't want to be like this all the time, but he can't...stop. He can't fucking stop.

The thought makes tears spring to his eyes and he scrubs at them angrily because he's so damn tired of crying. He's tired of messing up and letting everyone down. He's tired of smiling, tired of breathing, tired of living a day at a time.

He's just tired.

The next thing Sam's aware of is Dean's frightened voice in his ear, his hands gently shaking his body. After a second he can hear Bobby's voice close to his head and Cas's in the background.

"—ake up, Sammy. Come on, Sam, I need you to wake up for me, okay? Can you hear me? Sammy?"

"Dean, I'm sure he's perfectly fine. He ain't got a fever or anything..."

"Perhaps he just decided to take a nap in the middle of the floor. Somehow it seems like the type of thing Sam would do."

Sam blinks his eyes open and Dean's face swims into focus above him, going slack with relief.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean nearly shouts, the fear from before quickly morphing into anger.

The younger Winchester pulls himself into a sitting position and rubs a hand down his face. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Got tired."

Dean lets out a frustrated breath and sits back on his heels as Cas says, "I thought that most humans preferred to sleep in a bed."

Bobby rolls his eyes. "They do."

"Is there a reason you decided _not _to be like most humans?" Dean questions tersely, and Sam can tell that his brother is afraid that he'd just randomly passed out or something.

He shrugs and says, "I'm okay," hoping it will reassure Dean somewhat.

It doesn't.

The older Winchester sits down completely and drops his head into his hands, almost seeming to deflate. "No you're not," he says, his voice muffled by his hands. "God, Sammy, you are so far from okay it's—it's not even—" He stops speaking as his breath hitches.

Cas, looking slightly uncomfortable, mumbles something unintelligible and disappears, and Bobby leaves with a soft, "I'll let you two alone."

"Why won't you tell me what's wrong, Sam?" Dean asks, having re-gathered his composure. He looks back up at his younger brother.

"I..." _I don't know what's wrong, _Sam wants to say, except he can't. He does know what's wrong. But he's afraid that if he draws attention to what he's scared that Dean thinks of him, then Dean will remember that that is in fact what he thinks and leave Sam by himself again. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Dean sighs, standing and preparing to leave. His eyes become cloudy as he murmurs, "Just be okay."

* * *

The drive up to Minnesota is quiet, as expected. Sam doesn't each much, doesn't talk much, answering direct questions and staring out the window. His skin has started to take on a sickly pallor and Dean knows that he has to get his brother to eat a full meal soon or his body's going to give out. He swallows at the thought.

Sometimes Sam will turn to look at Dean with his mouth half-open like he's about to say something but he never does, and Dean is left with this feeling of helplessness that makes him want to hit something. Or vomit. Because there's only one word that comes to mind when Dean thinks about it.

Sam is broken.

Those bastards broke his Sammy. Dean doesn't know if he can fix it this time, and that scares him more than anything.

Dean pulls into the parking lot of some diner in Lyon and turns off the ignition. He doesn't get out right away, just sits there staring out the windshield and worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He glances over at his little brother to find that the younger man is looking at him with confusion and something that looks way too much like an apology in his eyes.

Dean lets out a frustrated breath and turns away. He doesn't want to see Sam's guilty expression, because what the fuck does the kid think he has to be guilty about? There's nothing. Fucking _nothing_ that warrants Sam's apology.

_Except for, you know, ending the world, _a tiny, traitorous part of Dean's brain offers.

_Shut the hell up, _Dean thinks viciously. The world hasn't ended yet. And if this is what Armageddon looks like—exactly the same as before—Dean'll take it. Gladly.

"Alright, Sammy," Dean says, extracting himself from the car. "Time to get some grub."

Sam follows his older brother dutifully into the grungy burger joint, sits in the booth opposite him. Doesn't say anything when Dean orders him a deli sandwich that he probably won't eat.

"You think we'll make it up to St. Louis before nightfall?" Sam asks quietly, and Dean pauses because it's the first time Sam's spoken without initiation in what might be weeks.

"Not a chance, Sam," Dean chuckles. "It's already three o'clock." And since it's the middle of January, night will be fast-approaching.

Sam nods and looks down into his glass of water, swirling the straw around in the ice. Dean watches him for a while, and by the time the waitress has brought out their food, he's made a decision.

"Eat it," he orders when Sam just looks at his sandwich. The younger man automatically takes the thing in his hands and raises it to his mouth, but stops when he gets there, hesitating. "Sam..."

Sam takes a bite, chews robotically. He sets the sandwich down and pulls his drink towards him, completely ignoring the straw in favour of nearly dumping the liquid down his shirt as he gulps.

Dean sighs and looks out the window for a minute. This isn't going to work. He can tell already. But he tries anyway.

"Look, Sammy," he starts, "I really need you to tell me what's going on, okay? Just tell me what they said to you."

Sam wipes his wrist across his eyes and Dean knows without seeing that Sam is trying not to cry. The uncontrollable waterworks are something that Dean might have teased his little brother about were the situation not so damn serious.

"It's nothing, Dean," Sam says lowly, not meeting the older man's gaze.

Dean quells his frustration and focuses on the task at hand. "The hell it is," he replies calmly, pushing his burger to the side and folding his arms on the table in front of him. "It stopped being 'nothing' the minute I found you in that basement." He waits for Sam's response but it never comes, so he plows on. "You haven't been yourself for weeks, Sam. Honestly, it's starting to scare the shit out of me. Bobby too. I don't want you to feel guilty," he adds quickly because he knows that that's how Sam's going to take it, and the last thing the kid needs is something else to feel guilty about. Guilt is what got them into this mess in the first place. "I just want to know what's wrong so I can fix it."

Sam exhales slowly. "It's nothing," he repeats.

Dean leans back against the red vinyl booth seat and closes his eyes, trying this best not to snap at his brother. He reminds himself that he had known this was a futile effort from the start.

"Okay," he allows, though he's far from finished with the conversation. "Are you done?"

Sam nods. Dean takes out his wallet to pay for the food that neither of them had the appetite to eat, and then they leave.

Sam falls asleep somewhere between Sterns and Morrison, just as the sun is setting, so Dean decides to call it a day and heads to the first motel he sees. He doesn't wake his brother as he goes to pay for the room or when he moves their belongings from the trunk to the two queen-sized beds. The place is nice, he notes. Fairly clean-looking bedclothes, a small refrigerator, and a bathroom that Sam will be able to stand in without hitting various parts of his body on various porcelain appliances.

Dean returns to the Impala to find Sam awake and looking slightly disoriented as he takes in the unfamiliar surroundings. Dean opens his door.

"Hey, Princess," Dean teases lightly. "Get enough beauty sleep?"

Sam blinks at him. "Dean? Where're we?" he asks, and his speech is slightly slurred.

Dean sighs even though he had known that Sam wouldn't take the bait. "Just passed into Morrison," Dean replies, then steps back to let his brother out of the car. "C'mon, Sasquatch, you obviously need some more rest."

Sam nods automatically and then furrows his brows as though unsure of what he just agreed to. Dean swallows a chuckle and shuts the door when Sam gets out.

The younger man heads straight for the bathroom when they get in and before long Dean can hear the shower turn on. He sighs, heading for his bed with the remote in hand.

He can only hope that when this is over, Sam will be okay again.

* * *

They start out early the next morning because Sam insists. Dean would have just as soon let the younger man sleep longer, but the kid was up at five guzzling coffee and packing up the car and ignoring his older brother's attempts to get him to eat something. Sam keeps just as quiet as before. He stares out the window at the blurring countryside and doesn't say anything when Dean turns up the music experimentally again. Dean checks the rearview, passing into the other lane with a sigh.

They stop minimally and manage to make it to St. Louis a little after nightfall, much to Dean's relief. He's not sure how much longer he can stand being trapped in the car with Silent Sammy. Besides, the sooner they get this over with the better. Dean's still not keen on the idea of letting his depressed little brother at a vengeful spirit with a loaded weapon.

"Where did you say the house was again?" Dean asks as Sam settles on the bed with his laptop.

"Pretty much in the middle of nowhere," he replies softly, turning the computer to let Dean see the map. It _was _pretty much in the middle of nowhere; a small farm surrounded on three sides by forest and the other by a lake.

"All right, we'll head up tomorrow," Dean says as though it isn't obvious. "They have the graves marked, right? Should be pretty simple."

Sam nods, goes back to his research. Dean pretends that this doesn't bother him. He orders Chinese food and threatens to physically force the food down Sam's throat until the younger man complies and eats some of the vegetable, and even though Dean would have rather seen him eat some protein it was good enough for now. The older Winchester lies awake for a long time after Sam starts snoring, wondering if this hunt is really going to have the desired effect.

Sam is up and at 'em as the sun breaks over the horizon and lights up the grey storm clouds. He mentions the fact that is looks like snow. Dean grins because he's sounding more like Sam.

They load up the car and head out just as the first flakes begin to fall, and by the time they make it to the house Dean can barely see through the windshield.

"Damn," he mutters, "it's gonna be fucking cold huntin' for those graves out there." It's not a pleasant thought.

Sam nods absentmindedly and steps outside, letting a gust of cold wind into the car. Dean shivers.

"Split up?" Sam asks after they've gathered their guns and shovels.

_No way in hell, _Dean thinks. "Nah, I think we have an idea of the general location," he says instead. Sam shrugs and they head around the side of the old building, towards the line of trees bordering east. It's quiet save the howling wind, and Dean wonders where the poltergeist is if he's not out here throwing them around in the storm. He reaches up to brush a bit of snow from his hair.

They only have to go a little ways into the woods before they come across the small makeshift cemetery. Dean frowns when he sees how many graves there actually are.

"Which one do you think it is?" he asks, but Sam is already walking over to one of the smaller headstones.

"Andy Myers," Sam murmurs. "Killed himself."

Dean glances at his brother. "Probably it, then."

Sam digs first, starts doing so without question, and Dean looks up into the pelting snow. It stings as it flutters into his eyes. He looks down and wipes a hand over his face.

"Okay, Sammy," he says after a few minutes. "Break time." Sam climbs out of the hole he's started and hands Dean the shovel without a word, turning and looking back at the house warily. "Wonder where..."

"You and me both," Dean grunts as he digs the metal tool into the ground. The earth is surprisingly soft considering the temperatures lately. Hell, it was even cold in South Dakota.

It only takes about fifteen minutes before Dean's shovel bangs off of wood, and then he's clearing the dirt away and lifting the lid of the coffin to reveal some pretty ancient-looking bones. Dean frowns, because the house must have been abandoned longer then he thought.

"You sure this is the right one?" he asks, raising his voice over the wind. Sam looks down and nods.

"Positive. There were other deaths here right after his suicide in 1874, but no one really paid attneiton. Then people stopped coming here."

Dean nods. It makes sense. He sprinkles salt over the bones before climbing out of the grave, and then he lights the end of a small twig on fire and drops it into the pit. The flames crackle and snap and steam rises into the air along with smoke as the snow melts.

Only when they're halfway through filling the grave back up does Dean suddenly find himself airborne as a deep, angry voice booms, "_Leave_!"

He curses as his shoulder makes abrupt contact with the nearest tree and halts his lesson in aerodynamics. "Sam!" he calls, sitting up, but his brother is already taking off for the house.

"There must be something in the house!" he shouts over his shoulder.

Dean curses again and staggers to his feet, sprinting after the younger man. The front door slams once, twice as they both burst into the house.

"Look upstairs," Sam orders, and Dean wants to protest but he can't, so he leaps up the stairway and starts tearing the floor apart, trying desperately to find the object that the spirit could be tied to. He hears crashing from downstairs, the same booming voice from before, and then comes across a large wardrobe in what looks like it might be a bedroom.

"Sam!" he yells, "up here!"

He can hear his brother's pounding footsteps on the stairs, and suddenly the air is knocked out of his lungs as the wardrobe comes down on top of him.

"Guh," he gasps, trying to push the thing off, but a very, very pissed off looking ghost has just appeared to the right of him, and somehow he doesn't think that only gravity is holding the piece of furniture down.

"_Get out_!" the spirit shrieks. Its long, messy hair falls in front of its pale face.

"Sam," Dean says, because his gun, he can't reach his gun...

Sam stops in the doorway, appraising the situation. He raises his gun to take the shot.

But then that gun, too, is halfway across the room, and Dean waits for his younger brother to go after it. He doesn't.

* * *

When the spirit knocks the gun out of Sam's hands, suddenly Sam can't move. He stares at the weapon, and then back to the spirit. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the poltergeist has murder in his eyes. Sam just can't bring himself to care.

Even as Dean is screaming, "The gun, Sam! Get the gun!" Even as the ghost has him against the wall with its hands tight around his throat, cutting off his air supply. Death is suddenly just fine. Welcome, even. He closes his eyes and doesn't fight, and the last thing he thinks as the darkness takes him is, _I'm sorry, Dean._

Sam blinks, clearing his fuzzy vision, and looks around. It's warm and dry, and the sun is just beginning to set over the clouds. It looks like he's in some sort of park.

"What the f—"

"Hello, Sam," a familiar voice says from behind him. "It's been a while."

Sam whirls around to face Lucifer. "What the hell did you do?" he asks lowly.

Lucifer shakes his head. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," he sighs. "When will you learn? I told you I would just bring you back. I am a man of my word, if nothing else." He smiles, genuine. "Walk with me."

Sam knows that he has no choice but to do what he says, but puts a few feet of distance between then nevertheless. "What is this?" he asks. "Why not just bring me back right away?"

"Well," Lucifer says, "two reasons. One, it's nice chatting with you. Two, I realise now that I need to set some priorities in that not-so-smart little brain of yours."

Sam grits his teeth and clenches his fists. "I have my priorities in order, thank you very much," he snaps.

"Obviously not," Lucifer disagrees, and smiles patiently as though teaching a small child. "How could you leave your brother like that?"

Sam pauses at this. "What do you mean?" he asks cautiously.

"Your brother needs you, Sam," Lucifer says. "You can't just leave him by himself. You have a duty to him, after all. Especially after all that you've done."

Sam looks up at the setting sun. As much as he hates to say it, Lucifer is right. Dean needs him. What was he thinking? All this time, Dean needed him, and he wasn't there. He can put his emotions aside for a little while longer, bear the guilt just a little more. For Dean. What happens in the future won't matter until they get there.

"Are you ready to go back now, Sam?" Lucifer questions softly. Sam nods. The devil smiles. "I knew you were just a bit misguided," he says, putting two fingers to Sam's temple.

* * *

When Sam wakes up, Dean is trying to break his ribs under his hands as he does compressions, tear tracks staining his face. He's mumbling something, and it takes Sam a minute to decipher the words.

"Don't do this to me, Sammy. Not now. Please, god, not now. Just come back. Come back to me. Please, Sam."

"Dean," Sam croaks, reaching out and touching Dean's cheek with a shaking hand, and Dean's head snaps up.

"Oh thank god," Dean gasps, hugging Sam fiercely.

_Not quite, _Sam thinks.

"Don't you _ever _do that again, you hear me?" Dean growls, giving Sam a harsh shake. "Jesus, Sam, I know you feel bad. I know you're unhappy. But you can't—you can't—" His voice catches in his throat, and when he speaks again, it trembles with barely retained tears. "You gotta talk to me, man. You gotta tell me when it gets this bad. You can't—get yourself killed over it." Sam hears what Dean can't say. _You can't try to kill yourself just because there's nothing left for you to live for._

"Okay," Sam says.

"I thought I lost you," Dean cries, suddenly unable to hold back his grief. "God, Sammy, I thought I lost you. You have to let me in. Please. You have to let me fix it, Sammy. I can't do this without you." A choked sob cuts him off, and Sam hold him a little tighter, trying to give comfort he doesn't have.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam apologizes, and Dean lets go of him before sitting back. He doesn't look at the younger man. For a few moments it's silent.

"You didn't even try for the gun," Dean says quietly then.

Sam turns his head away. "I know."

"You let that spirit kill you. You _died_."

"I know."

"Promise me," Dean demands, and he doesn't have to explain for Sam to know what he means.

Sam hesitates. He doesn't like lying to his brother. But Dean needs this, needs this like he needs oxygen, and if there's anything in the world that Sam can understand it's the need to believe that eventually, everything will be okay. So he'll give Dean the lies he needs, because right now, that's the only thing he _can _give.

"I promise."

* * *

_I heard you tellin' lies;  
I heard you say you weren't born of our blood.  
I know we're the crooked kind,  
But you're crooked too, boy, and it shows._

Some get dealt simple hands,  
Some walk the common paths, all nice and worn.  
But all folks are damaged goods;  
It ain't a talk of "if", just one of "when" and "how".

So, collect your scars and wear 'em well.  
Your blood's as good an ink as any.  
Go scratch your name into the clouds,  
And pull 'em all... down.

End.

* * *

**The last song is The Crooked Kind by Radical Face. I hope you enjoyed the story! =)**


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